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Day 16 of 35

In my dream you are a mime, leaning over a brick wall, in deep conversation with my father. And then you are gone, and the wall disappears, and I am in a garage watching my father punch a heavy bag. He throws punch after punch in the exact same spot–the space of vinyl where he wrote the names of his dead in black ink. When he tears through to the stuffing, he wraps the bag in duct tape and writes the names again. He keeps punching. His rhythm becomes my heartbeat. I have to wake up.